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THE 


COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


BY 

MARGAEET  HILL  McCARTER 


Illustrations  by  Lydia  Wehe  Crabill 


TOPEKA,  1903 


GBANS  A COMPANY,  PBINTSBIB 
TOPEKA,  KANSAS 


Copyright  1903, 

By  MARGARET  HIEL  McCARTER, 
Topeka,  Kansas. 


rr}/27c. 


4 


( 

I 


Cottontoooli’0  &tot^. 

TELL  it  just  as  the  cotton- 
wood told  it  to  me.  I 
made  my  peace  with 
trees  long  ago.  They  are 
my  cool  sure  friends,  never  -moody 
nor  wayward  nor  unfaithful.  I 
listen  to  their  gentle  messages,  and  I 
know  that  Ruskin,  or  whoever  it  may 
have  been,  was  right  when  he  said : 

“There  is  something  more  than 
‘wood  to  hew’  in  the  forests  that 
cover  the  mountains  like  the  shadow 
of  God ; something  more  than  ‘water 
to  draw  ’ in  the  rivers  that  move  like 
His  eternity.” 

I lived  days  and  days  with  the 
cottonwood,  and  it  told  me  all  the 
story.  Only  my  translation  is  harsh 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


and  barren  of  beauty.  If  you  heard 
it  yourself  you  would  catch  the  pat- 
tering sound  of  leaves,  so  like  rain- 
drops on  dry  roofs  in  the  summer- 
time, the  rippling  glint  of  glossy 
green  color,  the  moan  of  twisting 
white  branches  before  the  storm,  and 
even  the  soft  spirit-music  of  drifting 
cotton  that  sounds  only  into  ears  that 
listen  for  its  noiseless  melody.  The 
great  tree  spoke,  and  this  is  the  tale 
it  told. 


4 


EeatU00  25ousli0. 


WIND  - SWEPT  prairie 
:hi  that  rippled  away  into 
the  purple  distance. 
Shallow  streams  lying 
like  thin  ribbons  flung  carelessly 
across  the  landscape.  Shifting  gold 
and  green  and  crimson,  and  the 
steel-blue  line  of  the  stone  out- 
crop coloring  the  earth.  A brazen, 
cloudless  sky,  with  a wonderful 
tinting  of  pink  along  its  sun- 
set rim. — These  were  what  I saw 
when  I first  peeped  over  the  brow  of 
that  slope.  The  gossipy  breezes  told 
of  coyotes  and  wolves  and  westward- 
moving  lines  of  Indians,  but  I never 
caught  a glimpse  of  them ; nor  did  I 
grow  sad  at  the  sighing  loneliness  of 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


the  winds  moaning  for  the  glory  and 
power  lost  when  they  came  eastward. 
The  big,  bulgy-headed  tumbleweeds 
took  them  seriously,  and  rolled  help- 
lessly down  to  that  long  draw  away 
below  my  feet,  where  the  October 
prairie-fires  always  found  them. 

But  I ever  loved  this  place,  and, 
sheltered  from  the  north  by  that 
swell  of  ground,  my  head  above  the 
slope  so  that  all  the  wide  plain  was 
before  me,  my  feet  deep  in  the  earth 
where  the  unfailing  cisterns  are, — 
trust  a cottonwood  to  find  their  se- 
cretest  hiding-places, — I fiung  my 
bare  young  branches  upward  and 
caught  the  light  and  warm  sweet  air. 
And  when  the  northeast  rains  sobbed 
and  wept  for  the  great  lakes  they 
missed  so  much,  and  when  the  north- 
west blizzard  curled  and  uncurled  its 


6 


LEAFLESS  BOUGHS 


long  whiplashes  of  fierce,  cutting 
cold;  and  most  of  all,  when  the  hot 
south  blasts  came  singing,  singing 
of  the  scorched  distant  plain,  I let 
them  all  pass  by  me  without  ever 
wishing  to  go  where  they  had  been 
and  to  see  what  they  had  seen.  All 
the  sap  in  my  veins  was  tingling 
with  hope  and  belief  in  my  own  coun- 
try, and  I bent  before  the  rain  and 
the  cold  and  the  heat;  but  I never 
broke, — not  I. 

And  one  day  Sam  came. 

I knew  him  by  no  other  name  in 
all  the  years  that  followed,  nor  his 
people  except  as  Sam’s  folks.  The 
East  Wind  said  that  Sam’s  father 
had  chronic  liver  complaint,  his 
mother  chronic  laziness,  and  his 
brothers  and  sisters  more  or  less  of 
both.  But  then  the  East  Wind  likes 


7 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


to  talk  ill  of  people.  It  is  the  fault- 
finder of  the  air. 

The  folks  came  in  a funny  scoopy- 
topped  covered  wagon ; they  drove  a 
horse  and  a mule,  and  behind  the 
wagon  was  a brown  brindled  cow 
and  under  the  wagon  a brown  brin- 
dled dog.  And  all  of  them,  the  folks, 
the  horse  and  the  mule,  the  brown 
cow  and  the  brown  dog,  and  even 
little  Sam  himself,  turned  browner 
and  took  root  and  became  a part  of 
the  soil  at  my  feet.  They  would 
have  been  safe  from  the  eye  of  In- 
dian or  wild  beast,  for  their  color 
scheme  was  perfect. 

They  burrowed  into  the  earth  and 
made  a home  for  themselves,  and 
covered  it  over  with  prairie  sod  and 
called  it  a dugout.  They  scratched 

a little  at  the  rich  soil,  and  com  and 

8 


LEAFLESS  BOUGHS 


weeds  grew  together  in  the  scratches. 
They  fished  and  trapped,  and  in  the 
hot  summer  days  they  lay  where  my 
shadows  covered  them,  and  slept 
away  the  hours.  They  were  a tri- 
fling lot,  the  breezy  West  Wind 
thought,  and  they  talked  much  of 
going  back  home  to  Missouri;  but 
they  never  went.  At  first  I wished 
they  might  do  it,  but  later  I came 
to  love  them  in  spite  of  themselves. 

I was  growing  taller  all  the  time, 
and  I could  see  farther  and  farther 
across  the  plains.  There  are  seven 
towns  and  villages  in  sight  now,  be- 
sides that  big  city  over  there,  with 
its  round-topped  dome  forever 
watching  the  valley. 

How  I have  loved  the  people  who 
filled  up  this  land ! For  them  I sent 
my  children  far  and  wide,  and  wher- 

9 


THE  COTTONWOOD’ 8 STORY 


ever  these  children  took  root  the 
early  comers  knew  there  was  living 
water.  For  them  the  cottonwood 
was  shelter  and  lumber  and  firewood 
and  wind-break.  For  them  it  was 
the  symbol  of  vigor  and  sturdy  per- 
sistence. For  them  it  coaxed  the 
rain  from  unpitying  skies.  It  stood 
up  fearless  in  storm  or  drouth,  a 
thing  to  weather  all  changes.  It  sent 
out  its  sympathetic  spirit  to  the  ach- 
ing, homesick  hearts  longing  for  the 
woodlands  far  away  in  the  East. 

The  whole  countryside  is  check- 
ered with  freeholds  now,  hut  in  those 
days  I can  recall  the  first  hamlet,  so 
far  and  far  away.  I remember  as 
if  it  had  been  only  yesterday  the 
long  lines  of  white-covered  wagons 
that  crossed  my  prairie,  the  first 

cornfields,  the  fenced-in  farms  and 
10 


LEAFLESS  BOUGHS 


the  roads  settling  straight  and  defi- 
nite where  the  trails  had  only  strag- 
gled aimlessly.  I remember  the  first 
little  church-spire,  and  not  very  long 
after  that  the  little  red  school-house 
where  the  river  trail  and  the  long 
southwest  trail  crossed  each  other. 
The  air  was  always  clear  to  me 
around  that  school-house,  and  I 
could  look  into  its  two  small  south 
windows  every  day. 

But  Sam’s  folks  cared  nothing  for 
all  this.  They  kept  on  the  other  side 
of  the  divide.  None  of  them  could 
read;  the  brothers  didn’t  want  to 
and  the  sisters  didn’t  need  to. 

“ Girls  don’t  haf  to  have  no  leam- 
in’,”  Sam’s  mother  said,  “an’  the 
hoys  are  cute  enough  already.” 

Little  Sam  used  to  climb  up  into 

my  strong  houghs  and  hug  me  close. 

11 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


He  was  lonely,  for  the  other  children 
were  almost  men  and  women,  and 
the  few  neighbors  were  miles  away 
from  one  another.  Sam  was  a 
happy  brownie,  but  when  he  had 
worn  out  all  of  the  games  he  could 
invent  he  would  come  running  to  me 
with  outstretched  hands  and  nestle 
down  among  my  thin  branches. 
Then  he  would  cry  foolish  tears  that 
didn’t  know  why  they  came.  You 
see  that  bend  up  there  in  my  big 
right  arm?  It  just  fitted  Sam’s  head 
when  he  curled  himself  up  like  a cat 
on  the  limbs.  I have  always  loved 
children.  It  is  the  business  of  trees 
to  do  that,  but  I was  younger  then, 
and  little  brown  Sam  was  the  only 
child  I knew.  I was  especially  fond 
of  him,  for  he  was  my  first  love.  He 

told  me  all  his  secrets,  and  I came 
12 


LEAFLESS  BOUGHS 


to  know  as  mucli  of  the  inside  of 
that  dugout  as  if  I had  lived  in  it. 

The  folks  were  very  poor,  and  in 
the  nippy  winter  weather  they  were 
often  cold  and  hungry.  But  they 
wasted  the  fine  summer  days  when 
crops  grow  for  the  mere  cultivation ; 
so  they  just  managed  to  live  from 
year  to  year,  contented  when  they 
were  comfortable  and  growling 
when  they  weren’t.  Only  Sam  had 
a child’s  heart-sickness  that  nobody 
knew  of  except  myself. 

One  cold  winter-time  Sam  saved 
my  life.  The  father  had  gone  to 
mill  a long,  long  way  to  the  east,  and 
the  brothers  were  too  lazy  to  pro- 
vide wood  for  the  fire.  They  had  to 
do  something  to  keep  from  freezing, 
so  they  decided  to  try  me.  ‘‘  Green 
cottonwood  is  better  than  no  wood 


13 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

at  all,”  they  declared,  as  they  sharp- 
ened their  axes  with  saliva  and  a 
“whet-rock,”  as  they  called  it.  I 
shivered  in  every  fiber  when  they 
came  near,  hut  I had  not  reckoned 
on  little  Sam.  He  bounded  in  front 
of  them  and  climbed  clear  into  my 
swaying  icy  top,  and  there  he  clung. 
The  brothers  coaxed  and  threatened 
and  swore,  but  it  had  no  effect  on 
Sam. 

“You  sha’n’t  cut  down  my  tree. 
If  you  do,  I ’ll  go  down  with  it,”  was 
all  he  would  say. 

The  hoys  gave  up  at  last,  and 
sawed  up  the  posts  their  father  had 
just  planted  for  the  clothesline  to  he 
fastened  upon.  Sam  came  in  and  sat 
by  their  fire  and  warmed  himself 
with  a contented  heart. 

One  day,  when  he  was  up  in  the 

14 


LEAFLESS  BOUGHS 


higher  branches  looking  out  with 
lonely  eyes  across  the  sweep  of  land, 
he  spied  the  red  school-house.  How 
his  heart  thumped  against  my 
smooth  bark  as  he  watched  the  hoys 
and  girls  come  out  of  its  door  and 
dwindle  away  across  the  prairie  to 
their  humble  homes.  Sam  looked 
after  them  as  long  as  he  could  see 
them.  Then  he  sat  among  the 
boughs  and  watched  the  sun  go 
down  the  west  and  all  the  rich  pur- 
ple tints  of  evening  fill  the  land.  He 
had  no  eye  for  this  beauty.  Sunset 
meant  only  supper-time  to  him,  yet 
its  quiet  influence  was  upon  him 
nevertheless.  The  few  twinkling 
lamps  in  the  distant  houses  shone 
like  earth-stars  in  the  misty  gray 
softness  of  the  twilight,  and  the  boy 
wondered  if  the  stars  above  might 

15 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


not  be  the  lamps  about  which  the 
happy  souls  in  heaven  sit  together 
in  family  groups  through  the  long 
evenings  of  eternity.  The  soft  air, 
warm  and  moist  out  of  the  west, 
rippled  about  Sam’s  head  aad  kissed 
his  fuzzy  brown  hair.  He  climbed 
slowly  to  the  ground,  and  entered 
the  dugout  with  the  emphatic  dec- 
laration : 

“Dad,  I'm  goin’  to  go  to  school!’’ 


16 


HEEE  was  a tempest,  not 
C\j  B in  a teapot,  but  in  a dug- 
out,  before  Sam’s  inten- 
tion was  realized.  His 
mother,  in  her  lazy  way,  took  it  as  a 
sort  of  insult  that  ber  son  should 
have  an  intellectual  ambition. 

“You  couldn’t  beat  learnin’  into 
no  Missourian’s  head,  not  with  a 
wilier  club  soaked  in  potash,”  she 
said;  and  she  ordered  Sam  to  stay 
at  home. 

“He’ll  git  a misery  in  his  side 
walkin’  so  fur,  jist  like  I ’ve  had  all 
these  years,”  his  father  put  in  com- 
plainingly ; and  he  added  a mild  en- 
treaty “not  to  go  potterin’  ’round 
no  school.” 


17 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


“ Sam ’s  a fool  and  a ejit,”  the 
brothers  and  sisters  declared.  And 
the  little  boy,  thoroughly  disheart- 
ened, went  to  bed. 

But  something  in  the  springiness 
of  the  morning  air  put  thrills  into 
Sam’s  muscles  when  he  awoke  the 
next  day.  After  breakfast  he 
slipped  a piece  of  corn  bread  into  his 
pocket  and  came  out  and  leaned 
against  me. 

“I’m  goin’  up  to  the  top  of  the 
divide,”  he  said.  “If  the  wind’s 
from  the  north  I ’ll  stay  at  home.  If 
it’s  from  the  south  it’ll  blow  me 
right  down  to  that  school-house 
whether  Dad  and  Mam  want  it  or 
not.  I’m  not  goin’  to  stay  on  the 
edge  of  that  draw  down  there  for- 
ever.” 

There  was  a ripple  of  laughter  in 
18 


BUDDING  DATS 


every  budding  twig,  for  the  South 
Wind  was  singing  through  the 
upper  branches.  Little  Sam  from 
the  top  of  the  swell  waved  his  arms 
at  me  and  trudged  away  before  it, 
whistling  like  a mocking-bird. 

I watched  the  red  school-house  all 
that  day,  and  I was  one  quiver  of 
eagerness  for  the  little  brownie’s 
home-coming.  But  I might  have 
known  that  neither  the  father  nor 
the  mother  had  energy  enough  to 
make  more  than  a feeble  protest. 
They  would  have  done  no  more  if 
their  boy  had  been  going  headlong 
into  sin. 

Let  him  alone,”  the  mother  said, 
as  the  easiest  way  out  of  it  all.  “ Let 
him  alone  an’  he’ll  git  tired  of  it 
soon  enough.” 

And  so  he  did.  Not  of  the  chil- 


19 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

dren,  nor  of  the  life  — real,  active, 
busy  life — ^in  the  red  school-house  on 
the  other  side  of  the  slope ; but  learn- 
ing came  hard,  and  Sam  had  nothing 
to  help  him.  That  dreary,  dirty 
dugout  was  a poor  sort  of  home, 
even  when  two  rooms  had  been  built 
in  a crazy  fashion  in  front  of  it. 
When  Sam’s  father  went  seriously 
to  work,  his  liver  was  sure  to  get 
troublesome.  Things  stayed  half 
completed  for  months  round  that 
little  freehold.  And  idleness  does 
not  make  people  happy.  The  whole 
atmosphere  at  my  feet  was  one  of 
discomfort. 

Sam  had  no  encouragement  to 
study,  no  sympathetic  interest  in  his 
efforts,  and  no  inherent  mentality 
nor  inbred  sense  of  order.  Nobody 

except  myself  knew  how  dreadful 
20 


BUDDING  DAYS 


those  days  were  for  the  hoy.  Trees 
do  not  need  words  to  understand 
children.  We  take  in  their  thoughts 
as  we  do  light  and  air  — through  all 
our  open  leaf-pores. 

Sam  wanted  knowledge  and  he 
wanted  the  fellowship  of  the  chil- 
dren, hut  he  could  not  learn  the  hard 
lessons  in  books ; so  he  gave  up  try- 
ing, and  stayed  at  home.  He  was 
dropping  into  the  family  way  out  of 
which  the  days  in  the  red  school- 
house  had  lifted  him  a little,  when 
one  afternoon  I saw  the  teacher  com- 
ing up  the  road  toward  me.  She 
kept  her  eyes  on  me  and  I heard  her 
say, 

“ He  always  came  over  the  hill  by 
that  cottonwood  tree.” 

Then  I knew  she  was  looking  for 

Sam,  and  I waved  my  boughs  in 
21 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

courtesy  to  her.  She  rested  for  a 
moment  here  when  she  had  topped 
the  divide,  and  here  Sam  saw  her. 
He  came  shyly  at  her  call,  and  the 
two  talked  together  for  a long  time. 
She  was  not  pretty,  nor  graceful,  nor 
stylish.  Her  face  was  freckled  and 
her  hair  was  genuinely  red.  But 
her  gray  eyes  were  full  of  light  and 
her  smile  was  kindly  and  sweet. 
She  was  just  a plain,  breezy,  intelli- 
gent country  girl,  and  she  had  a no- 
tion that  teaching  school  is  a high 
calling,  helping  the  children  of  these 
pioneer  people  into  what  Saint  Paul 
calls  “The  life  that  is  life.”  She 
didn’t  tell  Sam  this,  for  he  could  not 
yet  comprehend  the  life  that  isn’t 
life. 

She  went  with  him  down  to  the 

house,  and  ate  supper  in  the  kitchen 
22 


BUDDING  DAYS 


dugout.  Her  shrewdness  in  meeting 
the  folks  would  have  done  credit  to 
what  men  under  that  dome  over 
there  call  “ a political  mixer.”  They 
all  praised  her  after  she  went  away, 
and  they  were  less  indifferent  to 
Sam’s  mental  progress  than  they 
had  been,  although  none  of  them 
could  help  him. 

It  is  wonderful  what  the  little  red 
school-house  may  put  into  a boy’s 
life  when  the  little  red-headed 
school-ma’am  puts  her  soul  into  her 
work.  Watching  Sam  from  day  to 
day,  nobody  noted  the  change 
wrought  in  him.  Only  I,  the  cotton- 
wood, saw  the  budding  promise  of 
his  mind.  Trees  understand  all 
about  slow  growths.  They  look 
farther  and  feel  deeper  than  people 
do.  And  sometimes,  when  the 

23 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


teacher  herself  was  discouraged  over 
this  poor  ignorant  child,  I alone 
knew  the  steady  unfolding  power  by 
which  my  little  brown  boy  was  com- 
ing into  his  kingdom. 

One  winter  day  it  came  my  turn 
to  do  for  Sam  what  he  had  done  for 
me  when  he  climbed  into  my  topmost 
branches  and  kept  his  brothers  from 
cutting  me  into  firewood.  There  had 
been  days  of  warm,  wet  January 
weather,  so  sultry  that  fires  were  a 
burden.  When  Sam  came  from 
school  in  the  evening  he  found  his 
mother  full  of  complaining.  Her 
clothesline  posts  — shaky,  rotten 
sticks — had  broken  under  the  weight 
of  the  week’s  wash,  and  all  the  gar- 
ments had  fallen  into  the  mud. 

Sam,”  said  his  mother  as  he  came 
into  the  steamy,  wet  kitchen,  full  of 

24 


B U DD  ING  DATS 


the  week’s  laundry,  “ Sam,  can’t  you 
fix  me  a line  that  will  stay  put?  I ’m 
plumb  done  up  tryin’  to  fool  with 
them  rotten  poles.” 

Sam  went  out  after  supper  and 
fastened  one  end  of  the  rope  securely 
to  the  low  corner  of  the  new  shed  on 
my  side  of  the  house.  The  other  he 
knotted  with  a tie  of  his  own  inven- 
tion round  my  lowest  limb.  Then  he 
told  his  mother  that  her  clothesline 
troubles  were  over. 

The  next  afternoon  a blizzard 
came  whirling  out  of  the  northwest, 
and  twilight  settled  down  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  afternoon.  The  scholars 
were  sent  away  early.  Only  Sam 
stayed  with  the  teacher  until  all  the 
children  were  safely  housed.  It  was 
dark  when  the  two  were  left  alone. 
Sam’s  home  was  nearer  than  the 


25 


THE  C0TT0HW00D>8  STORY 


teacher’s,  and  together  they  tried  to 
reach  it.  The  snow  came  in  great 
flapping,  swirling  sheets,  the  cold  cut 
like  splintered  glass,  and  the  wind 
from  every  point  of  the  compass  heat 
the  earth  with  the  fury  of  a demon. 

I watched  the  two  struggling  up 
through  the  pathless  drifts,  wander- 
ing wide  of  the  way  and  circling 
round  and  round  until  they  lost  their 
bearings  altogether  and  did  not  know 
where  they  were.  I moaned  aloud 
and  tossed  up  my  white  arms  in 
agony.  But  they  could  not  see  me, 
and  in  the  thick  of  the  storm  I lost 
them.  I bowed  my  head  before  the 
gale,  and  felt  the  sleet  glazing  every 
twig.  Suddenly  a cold  hand  clutched 
my  lower  bough,  and  Sam’s  voice 
cried  cheerily: 

“I  do  believe  it’s  my  cottonwood 
26 


BUDDING  DAYS 


tree.  Hold  fast  to  me.  I ’ll  know  it 
by  the  clothesline.  If  I can  find  that, 
it  will  talfe  us  to  the  house.” 

I held  down  every  limb  to  guide 
him  to  the  rope,  and  soon  he  and  his 
teacher  were  safe  inside  the  little 
shelter. 

I cannot  tell  you  of  all  that  came 
and  went  in  those  years  of  Sam’s 
schooling.  But  one  day  he  said  to 
his  father  and  mother, 

“ I ’m  going  to  the  High  School  in 
town.” 

“We  just  can’t  spare  you  no 
more,”  his  father  said.  All  the 
brothers  and  sisters  had  homes  of 
their  own  now,  patterned  very  much 
after  the  parental  roof. 

“You’ve  got  all  the  schoolin’  you 
need  to  run  this  ranch,”  his  mother 
declared. 


27 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


So  the  old  battle  had  to  he  fought 
over  again.  It  was  hot  August 
weather,  and  Sam  slept  every  night 
on  the  ground  at  my  feet.  On  this 
night  he  climbed  high  up  among  my 
branches  and  watched  the  moon  come 
out  of  the  east  and  fill  all  the  prairie 
with  an  exquisite  glory.  No  wooded 
land  nor  broken  mountain  region 
ever  gets  the  full  splendor  of  the 
moonlight  as  the  open  prairie  does, 
— the  radiance  that  is  softer  than 
sunlight  and  richer  than  starlight. 
And  no  tree  ever  sheds  off  that 
chastened  glory  like  the  glistening, 
silvery  green  of  the  cottonwood’s 
leaves.  Something  of  my  spirit 
thrilled  through  Sam’s  spirit  as  he 
looked  out  on  the  plain  I had  rejoiced 
in  year  after  year. 

“Over  there’s  the  High  School,” 
28 


BVDDINa  DAYS 


he  said,  bending  his  head  to  the 
north,  and  I ’m  going  to  go  there.” 

His  mouth  had  a determined  line 
about  it  that  was  marked  on  no  other 
face  among  Sam’s  folks. 

And  he  did  go.  Through  objec- 
tions and  obstructions  for  four  years 
longer  his  schooling  lasted.  And  one 
night  he  came  home  with  a diploma 
tied  in  white  and  green. 

“ Class  colors,”  he  told  his  mother, 
who  ‘‘allowed”  that  the  green  was 
all  right  enough,  but  where  was  the 
sense  in  the  white? 

After  that  came  the  hardest  battle 
in  all  Sam’s  life — ^the  struggle  where 
gaining  is  losing.  Sam  wanted  to  go 
to  the  University.  It  had  been  his 
dream  in  the  High  School  to  follow 
a profession.  High  schools  put  such 
notions  into  a boy’s  head.  In  the 

29 


30 


B DDDINO  DAYS 


very  springtime  of  his  manhood  his 
ambition  was  for  completer  educa- 
tion. 

This  time  he  met  with  no  opposi- 
tion at  home.  His  parents  said  not  a 
word  against  his  wishes.  The  strife 
was  all  within  himself.  He  could 
have  worked  his  way  through  college 
easily  enough.  That  wasn’t  the 
point.  Old  age  was  now  upon  the 
father  and  mother  — old  age  for 
which  they  had  never  made  provi- 
sion. Among  the  married  children 
one  of  the  hoys  was  dead,  one  had 
gone  wrong,  and  the  third  was  living 
in  the  same  shiftless  way  his  father 
had  done.  The  girls  were  both  heads 
of  households  now,  one  in  Missouri 
and  the  other  in  far-away  Oregon. 

Sam  was  the  only  prop  the  parents 
had  in  their  growing  feebleness.  If 

31 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

he  should  go  to  the  University  he 
could  do  no  more  than  to  maintain 
himself.  In  all  the  years  he  could 
remember,  his  home  had  done  so 
little  for  him  that  his  very  soul  re- 
belled against  the  claim  it  had  now 
upon  his  time  and  strength.  And 
yet  the  claim  was  there,  and  the 
struggle  in  the  boy’s  mind  was  terri- 
ble. 

I shall  never  forget  the  day  that 
conflict  ended.  Sam  had  risen  early, 
before  the  twilight  gloom  had  left  the 
draw.  He  came  up  the  slope  where 
the  dawn  first  breaks,  and  leaned 
against  my  trunk  and  watched  the 
magniflcent  splendor  of  the  new  day 
swing  grandly  out  of  the  horizon, 
and  felt  the  sweet  cool  breeze  that 
freshens  all  the  slumbering  land  at 


82 


BUDDING  DAYS 

waMng-tiine,  and  heard  the  musical 
twitterings  of  the  bird-songs. 

On  the  dim  sun-kissed  heights  far 
to  the  southeast  stood  the  Univer- 
sity ; down  in  the  shadowy  gloom  at 
his  feet  was  his  home  and  his  father 
and  mother,  to  whom  he  felt  that  he 
owed  so  little ; and  yet  they  were  his 
father  and  mother.  In  the  bitterness 
of  his  spirit  he  wrenched  a young 
limb  from  my  trunk.  The  scar  is 
there  still.  So  is  the  scar  on  his 
heart.  At  last  he  gave  one  long, 
agonizing  look  at  the  distant  east 
where  the  college  domes  were  dimly 
outlined  against  the  pink  heavens. 
Then  master  of  himself,  he  turned 
toward  his  home.  The  shadows  were 
all  gone  now;  the  new  day  with  its 
new  work  was  before  him.  He 
looked  no  more  to  the  eastward,  but 

33 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  8T0BT 


resolutely  put  his  hand  to  the  task 
and  his  shoulder  to  the  burden,  and 
followed  the  way  that  daily  opened 
before  him. 


34 


:51oie(0om  Tlimt, 


^ KNOW  how  you  would  tell 
||  U this  story.  You  would 
idealize,  for  you  have  im- 
agination, and  you  would 
end  with  putting  Sam  in  the  Presi- 
dential chair.  Trees  can  only  hold  to 
the  tale  that  writes  itself  out  about 
them.  And  while  the  way  “ from  the 
towpath  to  the  White  House”  is  a 
possibility,  the  East  Wind  tells  me 
that  not  one  hoy  out  of  a million  who 
follows  the  towpath  is  on  the  par- 
ticular one  that  leads  to  the  White 
House.  Sam’s  school  days  were 
ended  when  he  left  the  High  School ; 
and  I tell  you  what  I know,  not  what 
I dream  of.  I said  before,  that  trees 

35 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


understand  all  about  slow  growths. 
Sam  was  only  a boy,  and  all  his  de- 
velopment had  really  come  from  the 
other  side  of  the  slope.  No  wonder 
his  heart  failed  when  he  looked  at  his 
father’s  farm.  Broken  fences  trailing 
around  fields  luxuriant  with  weeds, 
shabby  stock  of  low  breeding,  tum- 
ble-down stables,  and  an  unpainted, 
unadorned  dwelling-house.  A com- 
plaining, sickly  father,  and  a feeble, 
querulous  mother,  resenting  change 
or  innovation  above  all  things.  An 
upside-down  bank  account,  and  no 
experience  in  self-reliant  direction  of 
affairs.  These  were  what  Sam  had 
to  face  when  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  University  and  cast  his  lot  with 
his  parents. 

How  slow  the  work  of  reclaiming 
a neglected  farm  is!  It  takes  so 

36 


BLOSaOM  TIME 


many  furrows  to  break  up  all  the  soil 
of  the  field,  so  many  strokes  to  build 
up  or  repair  dilapidated  sheds  and 
fences,  so  much  time  and  effort  to  re- 
stock a place  with  improved  breeds 
of  cattle  and  horses  and  hogs. 
Slowly  the  wave  of  improvement 
crept  across  the  freehold.  Patiently 
the  young  man  put  into  his  day  the 
results  of  the  discipline  and  inspira- 
tion of  his  years  at  school,  but  he 
could  not  note  the  development  about 
him,  it  was  so  gradual. 

At  the  end  of  five  years  the  whole 
scene  was  changed.  Only  the  inside 
of  the  home  under  the  mother’s  con- 
trol was  still  unlovely  in  its  plain- 
ness and  shiftless  disorder.  Sam 
had  failed  to  make  any  progress 
here.  He  didn’t  know  how  to  go 
about  such  things.  All  he  did  know 

37 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


38 


BLOSSOM  TIME 


was  that  he  had  conquered  the  weeds, 
and  that  the  long,  even  rows  of  corn, 
the  fruitful  orchard,  and  the  sleek 
animals  tempted  him  to  an  outdoor 
life.  He  wanted  vines  and  flowers, 
hut  his  mother  thought  otherwise, 
and  Sam  could  do  nothing  there.  In 
fact,  his  days  were  so  short  and  so 
full  of  care  that  he  had  little  time 
for  missing  any  of  the  pleasures. 
Neighbors  praised  the  young  man 
behind  his  hack,  and  his  father  and 
mother  charged  it  all  to  their 
“ hringin’  up,”  but  they  had  few  com- 
pliments for  their  son.  It  is  the  way 
of  parents  to  see  their  own  reflection 
in  their  good  children,  but  to  forget 
to  praise  merit  if  it  is  in  a blood 
relation. 

For  two  years  Sam  had  been  a reg- 
ular attendant  at  the  country  church 

39 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


whose  low  spire  first  looked  skyward 
in  all  my  prairie,  now  marked  by 
many  spires.  He  sang  tenor  in  the 
choir,  with  the  minister’s  sweet-faced 
daughter  leading  the  soprano.  Her 
name  was  Nellie,  and  Sam  thought  it 
the  prettiest  name  ever  given  to  a 
girl.  Once  in  a while  the  choir  prac- 
ticed at  the  minister’s  home.  Sam  al- 
ways felt  a cold  shiver  go  over  him 
when  he  came  into  his  mother’s  do- 
main after  an  evening  at  Nellie’s 
house. 

Once  in  a while,  too,  he  walked 
home  with  Nellie  from  choir  practice 
at  other  places.  One  moonlit  evening 
he  never  forgot.  The  young  people 
had  played  and  sung  until  late.  The 
road  to  the  minister’s  house  was  a 
long  one.  The  dewy  night  was  won- 
derfully still  and  beautiful.  Did 

40 


BLOSSOM  TIME 


Sam  dream  it,  or  did  Nellie  really 
let  some  offers  of  company  escape 
her  as  if  she  wanted  him  for  an  es- 
cort? Sam  could  not  tell.  He  only 
knew  that  he  had  never  seen  a night 
so  delicious.  Their  way  led  by  his 
home.  When  they  reached  me  Nellie 
paused,  and,  leaning  against  my 
bark,  she  clasped  and  unclasped  her 
hands  a little,  hesitatingly.  She 
plucked  a twig  from  a branch  and 
turned  it  between  her  fingers.  Then 
she  said  softly: 

“ Sam,  everybody  says  you  are  a 
very  good  boy,  and  that  you  deserve 
great  credit  for  your  kindness  to 
your  parents.  I think  you  are  good.” 

Sam  looked  down  toward  the  house 
in  silence.  His  father  and  mother 
had  been  more  than  ordinarily  try- 
ing in  the  past  few  days.  It  seemed 

41 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


to  him  that  when  he  tried  to  please 
them  he  only  made  them  more  irri- 
table and  exacting.  Like  a flash  it 
came  to  his  mind  what  life  would 
mean  with  such  a girl  as  Nellie  to 
rule  a home!  He  clutched  at  my 
lower  bough,  and  said  nothing. 
Then  Nellie  spoke  again : 

“It’s  none  of  my  business,  Sam, 
and  I oughtn’t  to  say  it,  but  I am 
glad  you  are  kind  to  your  father  and 
mother.  You  don’t  mind  my  saying 
it,  do  you?  ” 

Sam  gripped  my  bark  with  his 
great  strong  hands. 

“Of  course  not,  Nellie,”  he  said 
hoarsely.  It  was  the  sweetest  re- 
ward he  had  ever  known.  “I  wish 
things  were  different  down  there, 
but  I do  the  best  I can.”  Then,  with 
the  overmastering  love  in  his  heart 

42 


BLOSSOM  TIME 


shining  out  through  his  eyes  he 
added,  “I ’m  glad  you  said  that, 
Nellie.” 

Sam  stopped  his  plow  in  the  fur- 
row the  next  day,  and  leaning  on  its 
handles  he  recalled  all  that  had  taken 
place  on  the  night  before. 

His  eye  was  bright  and  his  step 
buoyant  when  he  came  in  to  dinner. 
There  was  no  meal  ready  and  nobody 
in  sight.  Passing  into  the  front 
room,  he  found  his  father  yellow- 
gray  with  fever.  Complaining  had 
been  so  habitual  to  him  that  Sam 
had  hardly  noticed  his  recent  decline. 
Now  that  his  father  was  stricken, 
the  boy’s  conscience  smote  him 
fiercely,  as  if  his  neglect  might  have 
caused  it  all. 

The  days  that  followed  were  al- 
ways as  a horrible  nightmare  to 

43 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

Sam’s  memory.  Nursing  the  sick, 
cooking  his  own  meals,  caring  for 
the  stock  and  tending  the  growing 
crop  filled  every  moment  of  his  wak- 
ing hours;  and  his  waking  hours 
filled  up  three-fourths  of  the  twenty- 
four. 

The  mother  soon  gave  way  before 
the  burden  of  it  all.  She  had  never 
in  her  life  met  and  resisted  any  try- 
ing thing,  so  Sam’s  care  was  doubled. 
The  thought  of  Nellie  and  every 
other  pleasant  memory  went  out  of 
his  mind  entirely,  and  only  dread 
and  weariness  and  persistent  strug- 
gle remained  for  him. 

The  neighbors  were  very  kind, 
and  did  many  kind  services  for  the 
family.  But  their  own  work  must 
go  on,  and  the  father  and  mother 


44 


BLOSSOM  TIME 


were  both  alike  in  refusing  minis- 
trations from  any  hand  but  Sam’s. 

April  and  May  slipped  by,  and 
now  it  was  mid- June.  One  night  in 
the  busiest  of  wheat  harvest  Sam 
watched  alone  with  the  two  shattered 
wrecks  of  humanity.  Just  at  mid- 
night his  father  said,  feebly : 

“ Sam,  I ’ve  never  done  much  for 
you.  You’ve  been  a good  boy  to 
me  an’  mother.  Some  day  you  ’ll  git 
your  reward.” 

He  turned  his  face  away,  but  not 
before  he  caught  Sam’s  low  reply: 

“ I ’ve  had  my  reward  already.” 

A little  later  the  mother  called : 

“Sam,  oh,  Sam,  I’m  so  weak! 
Take  care  of  him  — good-by.”  She 
pointed  feebly  toward  the  father, 
and  was  gone. 

The  young  man  bent  over  his 

46 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


father’s  form.  A smile  was  on  his 
face,  hut  his  eyes  saw  nothing 
earthly  any  more  forever. 

In  the  soft  still  darkness  of  the 
night  Sam  groped  his  way  up  to  me 
and  leaned,  numb  and  cold,  against 
my  trunk.  Then,  as  in  his  boyhood 
when  he  was  my  little  brownie,  he 
climbed  up  and  rested  among  my 
branches  and  laid  his  head  in  the 
bend  of  my  right  arm. 

In  the  early  morning  the  Doctor 
came,  and  later  came  the  neighbors. 
Two  days  afterward  all  the  country- 
side turned  out  after  its  fashion, 
only  more  numerously  because  this 
was  a double  funeral.  Since  the 
death  of  his  parents  Sam  had  been 
like  a figure  cast  in  bronze,  so 
strange  and  meaningless  were  all  the 
hours  to  him  now.  He  did  not  hear 


46 


B LO  8 8 0 M TIME 


the  minister’s  prayer.  He  did  not 
note  who  made  up  the  crowd,  nor 
how  loud  and  noisy  was  the  lament 
put  up  by  his  shiftless  older  brother 
and  his  wife.  This  brother  and 
sister-in-law,  living  two  townships 
away,  had  been  too  busy  to  come 
home  more  than  once  during  the 
family  sickness.  To-day  Sam  hardly 
knew  of  their  presence,  so  paralyzed 
were  his  powers.  It  was  only  when 
Nellie’s  voice  began  the  hymn, 

"Abide  with  me.  Fast  falls  the  eventide/’ 

that  his  numbness  slipped  away  and 
a burning  fever  filled  his  veins. 

He  came  home  from  the  burial, 
and  walked  into  the  house.  After 
that  he  knew  nothing  for  many  days. 
When  he  came  to  himself  again  his 
old  home  seemed  to  have  vanished 
with  the  mother  who  ruled  it,  and 

47 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  8T0BT 


a sweet,  orderly  cleanliness  sur- 
rounded him.  A neighbor-woman 
whose  house  was  always  full  of  chil- 
dren and  whose  face  was  always  full 
of  cheer  (she  said  the  children  kept 
that  in  it)  was  moving  softly  about. 

“ How  could  you  do  all  this  ? ” Sam 
asked,  feebly  raising  his  hand. 

“ Oh,  I had  help,”  the  woman  re- 
plied. There  was  a tonic  in  her  very 
voice.  “The  preacher’s  girl  come 
nearly  every  day  to  tidy  up.  Your 
ma  was  sick  so  long  things  got  run 
down.” 

In  a little  while  Nellie  came  in. 
Sam  looked  at  her  eagerly.  He  had 
a feeling  that  if  she  would  only  stay 
with  him  there  would  always  he  red 
salvia  on  the  clock-shelf  and  a bowl 
of  purple-and-gold  pansies  on  the 
center-table.  But  she  had  only  come 

48 


BLOSSOM  TIME 

to  bring  some  books  for  bim  to  read 
wben  he  grew  stronger.  Yes,  she 
would  come  again  when  papa  could 
come  with  her;  and  she  went  away. 
She  did  come  again,  as  did  a dozen 
of  the  other  neighbor-girls. 

A little  later  a buxom,  gossipy, 
good-natured  widow  came  to  keep 
house  for  Sam,  and  by  degrees  he 
fitted  himself  into  his  old  lines  of 
work  again. 

The  next  spring,  when  my  red 
blossomy  catkins  with  invisible  fin- 
gers clung  to  my  branches  or  lay  in 
little  velvet  rolls  on  the  brown 
grasses  at  my  feet,  Sam  and  Nellie 
stood  in  the  golden  evening-light  and 
looked  out  on  the  prairie  I have 
watched  over  and  loved  so  long. 


49 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


The  odor  of  freshly  plowed  ground 
was  in  the  air.  The  orchards  were 
pink  with  their  burden  of  bloom. 
All  the  land  was  rippling  with  life 
and  color,  over  which  the  sunset 
cast  its  indefinable  radiance,  melting 
into  softer  tones  as  the  moments 
slipped  away.  How  changed  the 
scene  about  me  from  the  one  I had 
looked  on  in  the  days  of  the  first  set- 
tlers! But  no  more  changed  than 
this  splendidly  built  young  man  from 
the  little  brownie  who  years  before 
had  played  at  my  feet  with  that 
brindled  dog  that  had  tagged  the 
family  all  the  way  from  Missouri. 
There  were  lines  in  Sam’s  face  that 
the  cares  of  his  years  had  graven 
there.  They  gave  a certain  manly 
seriousness  to  his  countenance. 


60 


BL0880M  TIME 


Looking  down  at  the  fair  young 
girl  beside  him,  he  said: 

“Nellie,  I’ve  loved  this  old  tree 
since  I was  a child,  I always 
climbed  up  on  that  crooked  limb  to 
have  the  blues.  I was  sitting  here 
the  first  time  I ever  saw  the  school- 
honse  and  determined  to  go  to  school. 
I followed  the  clothesline  trail  from 
here  to  the  kitchen  once  when  I was 
lost  in  a blizzard.  I was  here  when 
I made  up  my  mind  to  take  the  High- 
School  course  in  town.  I stood  up 
here  one  time  and  gave  up  the  Uni- 
versity notion;  and  I came  out  to 
this  tree  the  night  my  father  and 
mother  died.  This  is  my  battle- 
ground, you  see. 

“Nellie,”  (how  tender  his  voice 
was!)  “I  want  you  to  be  my  wife, 

51 


U.  Of  <LL  Li3. 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


and  I can  ask  you  better  here  than 
I could  anywhere  else,  because  I am 
not  worthy  of  you;  and  if  you  do 
not  love  me,  tell  me  so  here.  This 
old  cottonwood  is  my  next  of  kin.” 

I shook  my  little  wine-red  rolls  of 
bloom  down  on  Nellie’s  crown  of 
sunny  hair,  and  gently  brushed  her 
cheek  with  falling  flowers.  She 
looked  up  into  Sam’s  face  and 
smiled.  I shall  never  forget  that 
smile. 

“ Tell  your  next  of  kin,”  she  said 
archly,  “ that  it  has  a rival  now,  for 
I ’m  going  to  stay  with  you  and  share 
your  warfare.” 

A sudden  after-sunset  glory  in  the 
west,  a sweep  of  soft  south-wind,  a 
musical  break  of  bird’s-song  some- 
where up  the  sky,  and  Sam  and 


52 


BLOSSOM  TIME 


Nellie  passed  down  the  grassy  way 
to  the  house,  thinking  as  men  and 
women  have  ever  done,  that  their 
love  was  rarer  and  sweeter  than  any 
other  loves  since  time  began. 


53 


IKnsitUns 


ROM  all  the  ways  my  cot- 
ton blows  I gather  that 
many  hooks  are  written 
to  tell  of  the  joy  of  life 
on  the  farm. 

“If  the  hooks  were  not  written,” 
the  East  Wind  says,  “ nobody  on  the 
farm  would  ever  find  out  about  the 
joy.  It’s  all  in  the  books.” 

I don’t  mind  the  East  Wind:  I 
like  it.  It  isn’t  a zephyr  from  the 
south;  but  then  it  doesn’t  pretend 
to  be  one.  And  I’ve  felt  the  north 
edge  of  a south  air  in  March  that 
had  saw-teeth  in  every  fold.  You 
know  what ’s  in  that  breeze  from  the 
east,  and  you  turn  up  that  side  of 

54 


BVSTLINO  LEAVES 


your  coat-collar  witliout  experiment- 
ing any. 

And  I know  — for  haven’t  I stood 
sentinel  over  the  ranches  on  both 
sides  of  the  slope  all  these  years  ? — 
I know  that  the  East  Wind’s  notion 
about  the  “joy”  isn’t  altogether  a 
false  one.  I’ve  seen  the  stalwart, 
fresh-cheeked  young  fellows  come 
out  here  from  Pennsylvania  and  In- 
diana (wherever  in  the  province  of 
the  winds  those  places  may  be),  and 
I ’ve  watched  them  bend  and  shrivel 
and  harden  in  the  hot  summers  and 
sharp,  bitter,  changeable  winters, 
until  their  shoulders  were  always 
stooped  and  they  hadn’t  complexions 
any  more  — just  hides.  I’ve  seen 
the  fair  Ohio  lassies,  bright-eyed, 
pink-cheeked  girls,  grow  old  and 
turn  yellow-brown  when  they  should 

55 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


have  been  blooming  still.  It  wasn’t 
my  prairie  that  did  it.  For  when 
these  went  “ back  East  ” to  visit  they 
were  many  of  them  vigorous  and 
buoyant  against  their  old-time  asso- 
ciates there.  That  is,  if  they  still  had 
old-time  associates.  Most  men  are 
living  with  their  second  wives,  and 
women  with  their  second  husbands, 
“hack  East.”  You’ve  noticed  that. 
It’s  the  fittest  that  survives  back 
there.  We  ’re  all  the  “ fittest  ” here. 
But  farm  life  has  its  same  dull,  hard 
side  everywhere.  The  pleasure  in 
it  is  as  yet  only  a sort  of  dream. 
When  people  have  learned  all  the  les- 
sons the  trees  may  teach,  they  will 
find  a joy  in  the  heaviest  work,  and 
the  real  country  life  and  the  ideal 
will  come  nearer  together.  Then  the 
bird’s  song  will  not  suggest  scare- 

56 


RUSTLING  LEAVES 


crows  for  the  cherry  trees,  nor  the 
lowing  herds  mean  only  milking- 
time. 

The  days  ran  into  years,  and  the 
treadmill  work  on  the  farm  was  no 
lighter  for  Sam  and  Nellie  than  it 
was  for  their  hard-working  neigh- 
bors. Little  children,  their  children, 
played  about  me.  The  farm  was 
never  so  thrifty  before.  Flowers 
grew  in  the  front  yard  now,  and 
vines  shaded  the  porches.  The 
young  love  had  ripened  into  that 
mature,  thoughtful  affection  that 
makes  the  home  the  most  enduring 
institution  on  earth.  But  the  long 
days  were  full  of  duties,  and  leisure 
was  an  elusive  delight  just  out  of 
reach.  Scant  as  their  opportunity 
was,  however,  they  both  found  time 
to  read  a little  and  to  talk  with  each 


57 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


other  of  what  they  had  read.  I saw 
less  and  less  of  Sam  now.  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  me.  But 
one  day  I gathered  from  the  chil- 
dren that  their  father  had  a new  no- 
tion. Then  I knew  he  would  come 
here  sooner  or  later;  and  he  did. 
One  Sabbath  afternoon  in  the  early 
fall  he  and  Nellie  sat  at  my  feet  and 
talked  of  their  plans. 

Sam  had  been  making  a study  of 
minerals.  I recalled  then  how  the 
little  red-topped  school-ma’am  had 
once  said  that  he  had  a head  for  bot- 
any and  geology  and  physics.  I 
know  these  without  a text-hook,  and 
I forget  how  little  is  the  knowledge 
people  have,  tied  as  they  are  to 
printed  pages.  I found  out  now  that 
between  whiles  in  the  hard  work  (the 
behveens  are  much  shorter  than  the 


58 


RUSTLING  LEAVES 


whiles  on  the  farm),  Sam  had  been 
thinking  and  reading  of  what  lay  be- 
neath the  soil  he  harrowed  every 
year.  Now  he  was  convinced  that 
there  was  coal  down  by  the  draw.  I 
knew  it  long  ago.  The  alfalfa  had 
found  that  out,  and  told  it  all  over 
the  place.  But  if  people  don’t  listen 
to  trees,  of  course  they  can’t  hear  the 
grasses. 

However,  the  thing  that  made  me 
shiver  until  my  leaves  clicked  to- 
gether like  chattering  teeth,  was  that 
the  farm  was  to  be  leased  and  the 
family  were  to  move  to  town. 

For  thirty  years  I had  watched 
Sam  daily  come  and  go.  I thought 
he  belonged  to  me  and  I stretched  out 
my  arms  to  him  in  entreaty.  At  that 
moment  I could  have  wished  him 
buried  at  my  feet,  for  then  I could 

59 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STOBT 


have  wrapped  my  roots  lovingly 
around  him.  It  was  only  for  the  mo- 
ment, however,  for  I know  too  well 
that  the  ones  I love  are  never  buried 
in  the  soil.  It  is  just  the  cast-off 
garment  that  men  put  there.  They 
live  on  in  the  shelter  of  that  Tree 
whose  leaves  are  for  the  healing  of 
the  nations. 

On  the  day  the  family  left  the 
farm,  busy  as  Sam  was,  he  stopped 
just  one  moment  at  the  top  of  the 
swell  and  waved  both  arms  at  me  as 
he  had  done  when  he  was  a little 
child  on  his  way  to  the  red  school- 
house. 

“ Good-by,  old  tree  — I ’ll  think  of 
you  every  time  I see  your  fuzzy  cot- 
ton blowing  about  the  streets.”  Mid- 
dle-aged man  that  he  was,  I caught 
the  minor  chord  of  sadness  in  his 
tone.  60 


RUSTLING  LEAVES 

As  for  Nellie,  slie  had  cried  very 
softly,  womaa-like,  when  she  came 
up  the  evening  before  and  stayed  a 
moment  in  the  twilight  by  my  side. 
She  didn’t  say  anything  to  Sam 
about  it.  Women  imagine  that  men 
forget  where  their  loves  began ; and 
they  generally  do.  It  is  only  the 
women  who  remember.  But  I felt 
sure  of  them  both,  and  I watched 
them  as  far  as  I could  see  them 
when  they  went  down  the  long  way 
toward  their  distant  home. 

When  Sam  first  became  a coal- 
dealer  and  contractor  of  coal  lands, 
his  competitors  called  him  “ the  Mis- 
souri farmer,”  and  ridiculed  the  no- 
tion of  his  success.  That  was  be- 
cause they  didn’t  know  Sam.  In  the 
country  the  neighbors  missed  him. 

A few  called  him  a fool,  while  an- 
61 


THE  COTTOEW  OOD^  S STORY 


62 


RUSTLING  LEAVES 


other  few  said  he  was  too  lazy  to 
work,  just  like  his  father.  That  to 
them  was  the  reason  of  this  moving 
to  town.  These  held  the  singular  no- 
tion that  the  business  man’s  life  is 
one  of  easy  comfort.  They  never  un- 
derstand the  exacting  anxiety  of  a 
merchant’s  day.  It  was  only  the  few, 
however,  who  thought  thus.  The 
most  of  the  countryside  had  found  in 
Sam  a friend  and  helper,  and  they 
were  proud  of  him. 

Sam  made  some  mistakes  and  lost 
some  money,  but  his  farm  had  the 
genuine  fuel  in  it,  and  as  the  years 
went  by,  his  wealth  and  influence 
established  themselves.  He  wasn’t  a 
millionaire,  nor  a social  leader,  nor  a 
political  “ boss,”  but  he  gave  and  de- 
manded a hundred  cents  on  the  dol- 
lar. He  did  not  seek  prominence, 

63 


TSB  C0TT02f  WOOD’S  STORY 


and  by-and-by  it  came  to  Mm  as  it 
sometimes  does  to  tbe  modest. 

His  older  children  were  in  the  Uni- 
versity now  — that  University  their 
father  once  gave  up.  The  younger 
ones  were  in  the  High  School,  or 
close  up  to  it.  As  for  Nellie,  she 
found  herself  very  much  at  home  in 
the  surroundings  the  city  gave  her. 
The  farm,  even  the  old  cottonwood, 
became  a part  of  the  past.  The 
neighbors  complained  a little  of  this, 
but  I bided  my  time.  Trees  never 
hurry  events.  They  are  content  to 
wait. 

One  day,  when  Sam’s  name  had 
become  one  to  conjure  with  in  all 
the  city  and  country  hereabout,  a 
shabby  old  covered  wagon  stopped 
before  his  handsome  office.  It  was 
drawn  by  a horse  and  a mule  just 

64 


RUSTLING  LEAVES 

like  those  that  came  out  of  Missouri 
long  ago.  In  the  front  of  the  wagon 
sat  a shabby  old  man  and  a forlorn 
old  woman,  while  four  little  children 
peeped  over  their  shoulders  at  the 
scene  about  them. 

Sam  knew  them  at  a glance.  It 
was  his  shiftless  elder  brother  and 
his  wife.  These  children  must  be 
some  motherless  grandchildren, 
Sam  thought  — as  indeed  they 
proved  to  be.  The  family  had 
moved  nine  times  since  the  death  of 
the  parents;  had  lived  in  Nebraska 
(they  called  it  Newbraska)  and  In- 
dian Territory  and  Iowa.  They 
came  now  from  Missouri,  “to  be 
near  Sam,  agin,”  they  said.  Sam 
knew  what  that  meant. 

“Ye  never  had  much  sense,”  the 
older  man  said,  patronizingly,  “but 

65 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

ye’ve  been  so  darned  lucky  ye  kin 
afford  to  help  us  a leetle.  We’ve 
never  had  no  show.  You  got  the 
farm,  you  know.” 

Sam  thought  unutterable  things. 
Among  them  was  of  how  his  good- 
natured  father  had  stinted  the  fam- 
ily each  time  a child  left  home,  in 
order  to  buy  out  that  child’s  inter- 
est in  the  home  place.  It  was  the 
only  stroke  of  business  in  which  the 
father  ever  succeeded,  and  that  came 
at  a price.  Here  now  was  the 
brother,  old  and  ignorant.  A 
wasted  life  behind  him,  and  no 
capacity  for  hread-winning.  What 
claim  had  he  upon  Sam!  and,  in- 
deed, what  could  Sam  do  for  him? 

The  younger  brother  in  his  com- 
fortable prosperity  resented  this  call 

upon  him.  He  remembered  only  too 
66 


RU8TLINO  LEAVES 


well  the  labor  of  mind  and  muscle 
that  had  gone  into  the  building-up 
of  his  fortune.  He  would  have  been 
willing  to  give  a large  cheek  to  his 
relative  and  send  him  away.  But 
that  wasn’t  a part  of  the  older  man’s 
idea.  Sam  was  rich  and  owed  him 
a living,  and  he  meant  to  stay  by 
Sam  and  feed  on  him. 

A note  was  sent  to  Nellie,  and  the 
“outfit”  turned  toward  his  home. 
Then  Sam  locked  himself  in  his  pri- 
vate office  to  work  out  his  problem 
alone. 


6T 


SDtitting  Cotton. 


AM’S  mind  went  back  to 
B the  dreary  night  when 
his  brothers  and  sisters 
had  called  him  an  idiot 
because  he  wanted  to  go  to  school. 
How  clear  in  his  memory  was  the 
scene  of  that  evening  in  the  little 
dugout  with  its  one  tallow  candle 
burning  dimly  on  the  table ! At  the 
thought  of  it  Sam  glanced  up  at  the 
electric  fixtures  of  his  handsome 
chandelier  above  his  polished  oak 
desk.  He  remembered,  too,  the  dirty 
floor,  the  unpainted  chairs,  the 
broken  window-panes  in  the  two  lit- 
tle windows.  But  more  than  these 
he  remembered  the  sneers  and  ridi- 


68 


DBIFTIN&  COTTON 


cule  from  all  of  the  family  except 
his  meek,  indifferent  father,  and  his 
own  discouraged  spirit  unable  to 
stand  up  against  them.  His  eye  fell 
now  on  the  Brussels  carpet,  the 
leather  upholstered  couch,  the  sweep 
of  curtains  from  the  wide  windows. 
He  thought  of  his  business  rating 
and  his  social  standing,  of  his  grow- 
ing wealth  and  promising  future,  of 
all  the  effort  it  had  cost  for  him  to 
reach  the  place  he  held  now. 

‘‘I  fought  my  battle  out  alone,” 
he  said  bitterly;  “I  don’t  owe  him 
anything.  Why  should  I keep  him? 
He  ’ll  be  a pauper  soon  enough  with- 
out my  help.  I needn’t  hurry  mat- 
ters for  him.” 

He  gazed  out  at  the  open  window, 
a firm,  determined  line  settling 
deeper  round  his  mouth. 

69 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

“I’ll  go  down  to  the  house  and 
have  it  out  with  him,”  he  said  de- 
liberately. “ It ’s  a brutish  thing  to 
do,  and  yet  he ’s  past  help  from  me. 
But — how  about  those  little  chil- 
dren?” 

Just  then  a drifting  fuzzy  flake  of 
my  cotton  sailed  in  through  the  open 
window  and  settled  at  Sam’s  feet. 
He  watched  it  dreamily,  and  his 
mind  came  back  to  me.  The  thirty 
years  we  had  lived  together  passed 
before  him  in  quick  review.  His 
lonely  childhood,  his  longing  for  an 
education,  his  dumb  sorrow  when 
his  parents  lay  dead,  the  sweet 
young  love  when  Nellie  and  he  stood 
by  me  in  the  warm  evening-light, — 
all  came  back  again  at  the  sight  of 
the  silent  swing  of  that  zephyr- 
blown  cotton. 


70 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


When  he  went  home  to  dinner  he 
said  to  his  wife: 

“Nellie,  I’ll  put  my  brother  to 
looking  after  the  teams  down  at  the 
yards.  It’s  the  only  thing  he  can 
do.  And  they  can  live  in  that  little 
property  of  ours  over  on  Elm  street. 
I’ve  just  lost  a tenant  from  that 
place.” 

So  the  elder  brother  settled  him- 
self for  the  rest  of  his  days  and  took 
his  good  fortune  as  the  payment  of  a 
debt  long  overdue. 

Among  the  grandchildren  of  the 
family  in  the  Elm  street  house  was 
a round-eyed  serious-looking  boy, 
whose  grave  face  and  roly-poly  body 
made  an  odd  combination.  Next  to 
his  “ Gran’pop  ” this  boy  adored 
Uncle  Sam.  He  used  to  steal  into 
Sam’s  office  on  rare  occasions  and 


71 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


search  through  the  scraps  of  paper 
in  the  big  waste-basket,  hunting  for 
pictures.  Sometimes  he  would  take 
bits  of  blank  sheets  and  with  a piece 
of  coal  from  the  grate  try  to  copy  the 
designs  and  illustrations  he  found  on 
the  advertisements.  When  Sam 
found  out  what  the  child  was  doing 
he  began  to  watch  him  closely,  not 
because  he  fancied  that  the  hoy  had 
any  talent,  but  because  he  was  in- 
terested in  his  efforts.  One  day  he 
gave  his  nephew  a box  of  crayons 
and  tablets  of  clean  drawing-paper, 
and  so  made  himself  a king  in  that 
little  artist’s  eyes  forever. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the 
elder  brother  would  take  kindly  to 
his  position,  after  the  newness  wore 
off.  But  his  duties  were  light  and 
not  nearly  equal  to  the  price  paid 

72 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


for  them,  and  inasmuch  as  he  had 
never  resisted  ill-fortune  he  was  not 
likely  to  put  up  a fight  against  bet- 
ter luck  than  he  had  ever  known  be- 
fore. So  he  stuck  to  his  place  and 
grumbled  at  it.  Along  with  his 
grumbling  he  assumed  a patronizing 
air,  and  made  Sam’s  business  the 
subject  of  his  dictation  and  criti- 
cism. His  wife  and  three  of  the 
gjrandchildren,  listening  to  this  fault- 
finding, came  to  regard  their  land- 
lord kinsman  as  a sort  of  robber,  but 
the  boy  whose  fingers  were  always 
black  with  charcoal  only  looked  seri- 
ously surprised.  He  said  nothing  at 
all,  and  in  his  heart  he  clung  to  his 
Uncle  Sam. 

The  next  summer  the  ten-year 
lease  on  the  farm  expired,  and  Sam 
hesitated  between  flattering  offers 

73 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


for  a re-lease  and  a downright  sale 
of  the  place.  "While  he  was  debating 
the  matter  with  himself,  loath  to  let 
the  farm  go  out  of  his  hands  and 
favoring  a new  lease,  a strange  thing 
happened.  The  company  that  for 
nearly  a year  had  been  eagerly  press- 
ing its  desire  to  contract  a new  lease 
suddenly  sent  a short,  clear-cut  with- 
drawal of  its  offer.  It  took  Sam’s 
breath  away. 

“I  wonder  why  they  did  that?” 
he  said  to  his  secretary. 

“I  do  not  understand  it  at  all,” 
replied  the  secretary  as  he  was 
leaving  the  room  to  do  an  errand. 

“I  do,”  spoke  up  Sam’s  nephew, 
taking  his  head  out  of  the  waste- 
basket into  which  he  had  been  div- 
ing. “An  old  mau  came  from  the 
coimtry  last  night  with  a letter  for 

74 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


you,  and  told  Gran’pop  the  ooal  on 
the  farm  was  give  all  out.  He  said 
it  was  a secret,  and  he  was  cornin’ 
to  tell  you  ’cause  he  wanted  you  to 
let  it  again  if  you  wanted  to.  Gran’- 
pop said  he’d  tell  you  himself,  an’ 
he  took  the  letter  the  man  had  for 
you.  But  this  mornin’  he  told  Gran’- 
ma  he  was  goin’  to  tell  them  men  that 
wanted  to  lease  the  farm  himself.  I 
said  I was  goin’  to  tell  you,  but 
Gran’pop  said  he’d  lick  me  if  I did, 
’cause  it  wasn’t  none  of  my  business. 
I didn’t  tell  you,  did  1 1 But  I come 
over  here  this  momin’  to  see  that  you 
found  it  out.  Gran’pop  says  you 
are  rich  enough  anyhow  for  a stingy 
man.  But  I don’t  think  you  are 
stingy.  I just  wish  I could  do 
somethin’  for  you,  you  are  so  good.” 

The  child’s  face  was  grave  and  his 

75 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


tones  were  so  simple  that  Sam’s  heart 
warmed  toward  him  more  than  ever. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  delayed  mes- 
sage from  the  farm  confirming  the 
boy’s  story,  was  sent  up  by  one  of 
the  men  from  the  yard.  Hardly  had 
it  been  delivered  before  the  expect- 
ant purchaser  of  the  land  entered  the 
office. 

“ I ’ve  come  to  close  up  our  deal,” 
he  said.  “ If  you  sign  with  me  before 
twelve  o’clock  I ’ll  put  another  thou- 
sand on  the  price.  I ’m  going  to  start 
East  at  two  o’clock.  It’s  to-day  or 
not  at  all.” 

Sam  was  smarting  imder  two 
whips.  The  ingratitude  and  trickery 
of  the  brother  whom  he  had  be- 
friended stimg  him  bitterly.  The 
sudden  failure  of  the  coal  supply 
meant  a financial  loss  all  the  more 


76 


DRIFTING  COTTON 

embarrassing  because  his  expecta- 
tions had  been  at  the  other  extreme, 
and  his  business  interests  had  ad- 
justed themselves  accordingly. 

You  wonder  how  I know  all  this? 
Have  you  ever  tried  to  measure  the 
area  over  which  I send  my  children? 
All  that  they  know  I know,  besides 
what  the  winds  and  the  birds  tell  me. 
I had  English  sparrows  nesting  with 
me  that  season  who  had  cousins  in 
town.  And  what  the  English  spar- 
rows can’t  find  out  isn’t  worth  a de- 
tective’s efforts. 

As  Sam  listened  to  the  flattering 
offer  a great  temptation  came  to 
him.  Why  not  sell  the  farm  now? 
No  official  notice  of  the  coal  failure 
had  reached  him.  He  was  not  yet 
supposed  to  know  of  it.  The  farm 
was  worth  the  price  offered.  There 

77 


TBE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


was  a fortune  in  the  soil  if  the  rocks 
below  had  ceased  to  be  productive. 
He  had  done  a man’s  duty  by  his 
brother,  and  only  evil  had  come  of 
it.  Was  he  not  justified  now  in 
looking  out  for  himself,  especially 
since  he  alone  knew  that  he  was 
blamable?  Nobody  else  could  ac- 
cuse him  of  double-dealing.  Yes,  he 
would  close  the  deal  at  once.  So  the 
contract  was  begun. 

As  Sam  turned  to  his  desk  to  fig- 
ure on  some  trivial  feature  of  it,  the 
other  man  remarked : 

“Of  course  I wouldn’t  buy  the 
place  at  all  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  coal 
prospect.  The  farm ’s  all  right  for 
a farm,  but  coal  land ’s  too  plentiful 
not  to  have  it,  and  that’s  the  pres- 
tiest  coal  prospect  I know  of.” 

Sam  turned  cold.  His  figures  lost 

78 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


meaning.  He  forgot  what  he  was 
trying  to  do,  but  he  set  his  teeth 
firmly.  The  man  would  be  East  for 
two  or  three  months.  The  condition 
of  the  mines  could  be  announced 
late  enough  to  cover  him  safely.  He 
would  go  on  now.  The  purchaser 
strolled  to  the  window. 

“Well,  just  look  at  that  drift  of 
cotton  against  the  iron  fence  over 
there  round  the  court-house!”  he 
said.  “ Say,  when  that  place  out 
there  is  mine  I’ll  cut  down  all  the 
cottonwoods  the  first  thing  I do. 
There ’s  a big  one  up  above  the  house 
a ways  that  ’ll  come  down  first. 
D’  you  remember  it?” 

Sam  did  remember  it,  and  his 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  alto- 
gether. He  walked  to  the  window 

and  saw  the  feathery  cotton  powder- 
79 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


ing  all  the  bluegrass  of  the  court- 
house yard,  while  a drift  like  the  first 
soft  December  snow  lay  heaped 
against  the  stone  foundation  of  the 
iron  railing  about  the  square.  All 
the  best  impulses  of  his  life,  first  put 
there  by  the  little  red-headed  school- 
teacher long  ago,  and  fostered  by  his 
own  efforts,  had  been  toward  clean, 
honest  living.  This  morning’s  work 
was  the  first  dealing  of  which  he  was 
ashamed.  Until  to-day  he  had  been 
genuine.  Now  he  was  becoming  an 
alloy,  one  part  of  which  made  him 
blush. 

So  his  heart  came  back  to  me,  as 
I knew  it  would.  Trees  can  wait. 
Out  from  his  office,  where  the  at- 
mosphere was  thick  with  temptation, 
his  soul  came  again  to  the  top  of  the 

old  divide.  The  air  is  pure  and 
80 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


sweet  there,  and  a man  may  breathe 
his  fill  of  it  without  fear  of  conta- 
gion. A mist  was  before  Sam’s  eyes. 
He  did  not  see  the  street,  nor  the 
buildings  across  the  way,  hut  a vision 
of  sunlight  glimmering  on  glossy 
leaves,  and  the  droop  and  swell  of 
wind-blown  branches. 

Turning  to  the  table,  he  tore  the 
contract  into  fragments. 

“I  can’t  sell  the  place,”  he  said 
bluntly.  “ The  deal  is  off.” 

The  man  stared  at  Sam.  “ So,”  he 
said,  “the  other  fellows  offer  you  a 
better  thing  in  a lease,  do  they?  ” 

“They  don’t  offer  me  anything; 
they  have  withdrawn  their  offer,”  he 
replied. 

“ Then  I think  you  must  he  a fool,” 
the  man  said  curtly. 


81 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

“ I know  I am  one,”  Sam  re- 
sponded. And  the  two  separated. 

Then  came  days  and  days  of  dis- 
couragement. 

There  was  a fortune  in  the  soil  of 
that  farm,  as  Sam  had  said,  hut  the 
returns  were  slower  than  the  pro- 
ceeds from  the  coal-mining  had  been, 
even  when  growing  alfalfa  and  fat 
thoroughbreds  helped  to  swell  the 
fimds. 

The  story  of  Sam’s  loss  soon 
spread,  and  his  business  credit  suf- 
fered a more  than  temporary  shock. 
But  he  looked  up  into  the  clear  sky 
and  thanked  Heaven  he  was  a free 
man.  Yet  the  bitterness  of  rebuild- 
ing influence  and  fighting  debt  re 
remained,  until  Sam  wondered  some- 
times if  he  were  not  the  only  man 

whose  life  was  just  one  battle.  I 
82 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


know,  of  course,  how  few  there  are 
whose  lives  are  anything  else.  And 
I know,  too,  how  useless  these  few 
are  to  the  world.  If  my  hoy  had 
only  come  to  me  he  would  have  found 
this  out,  but  he  was  too  busy  to  think 
of  me. 

Just  when  his  business  affairs 
were  most  embarrassed,  a final 
struggle  came.  A delegation  of  his 
old  neighbors  called  upon  him  one 
day  in  the  interests  of  the  new  inter- 
urban  electric  line  that  was  about 
to  connect  the  north  and  south  sides 
of  the  divide.  The  neighbors  hadn’t 
lost  faith  in  Sam.  He  had  lived 
among  them.  He  had  opened  up 
their  coal  lands  for  them.  They  had 
gloried  in  his  success,  and  they  hon- 
ored him  for  not  re-leasing  nor  sell- 
ing his  farm  when  he  might  have 

83 


TBE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


done  one  or  tlie  other  easily  enough. 
The  truth  about  that  leaked  out 
somehow. 

Sam  was  one  of  the  local  direct- 
ors of  this  new  road,  and  his  voice 
meant  his  own  and  at  least  a dozen 
other  votes  on  any  phase  of  the 
business. 

The  proposed  route  lay  along  the 
east  side  of  the  highway.  That  fact 
had  brought  out  the  delegation. 
They  wanted  it  changed  to  the  west 
side.  That  would  save  the  shade 
trees  of  a dozen  farmhouses,  includ- 
ing myself  and  others  of  our  free- 
hold. The  local  company  preferred 
the  east-side  route  because  there  were 
draws  to  bridge  and  fills  to  be  made 
on  the  west  route.  It  meant  at  least 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  dollars 


84 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


more  expense.  Naturally,  they  de- 
termined to  avoid  it. 

Sam  listened  to  the  farmers  and 
gave  them  his  word  to  help  them. 

“ I ’ll  do  all  I can  for  you  fellows ; 
don’t  expect  too  much  of  me,”  he 
said.  And  they  went  away  confident. 

Close  on  their  heels  came  a dele- 
gation representing  the  company. 
There  were  only  three  of  them,  and 
they  talked  with  Sam  behind  locked 
doors.  They  knew  his  position  and 
influence,  the  votes  he  could  control. 
Very  gently  and  adroitly  they  recog- 
nized, too,  Sam’s  reversals  and  great 
need  of  money.  The  capitalists  in 
the  Eastern  cities  were  ready  to  ad- 
vance twenty-five  thousand  for  the 
west  side.  It  mattered  nothing  to 
them  where  the  road  lay.  If  Sam 
would  find  it  convenient  to  throw  his 


85 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 

force  with  them  and  build  the  east- 
side  way,  he  would  find  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  ready  for  his  use,  and 
no  questions  put.  What  would  he 
done  with  the  other  fifteen  thousand 
they  did  not  say,  but  Sam  counted 
the  three  and  knew  how  many  times 
three  is  contained  in  fifteen  and  no 
remainder. 

“ Of  course  the  farmers  would 
kick  about  their  trees,”  they  said. 
“ That  was  to  be  expected.  They ’d 
kick  about  something  else  if  they 
didn’t  have  that  to  fuss  over.  That 
was  the  way  with  farmers.  But  they 
were  paid  for  their  land, — a mighty 
good  price,  too,  for  that  gumbo. 
And  what  were  a few  old  cotton- 
woods to  them  anyhow!  The  air 
was  full  of  their  infernal  fuzz  now.” 

So  they  talked,  and  Sam  listened ; 

86 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


and  all  the  while  my  silvery  cotton 
floated  by  the  Avindow.  He  did  need 
money  — never  more  than  now. 
This  sort  of  thing  was  practiced 
everywhere  by  local  management  — 
he  knew  that.  But  at  the  mention  of 
“ the  fuzzy  old  cottonwoods  ” he 
brought  his  fist  down  like  a sledge- 
hammer on  his  polished  oak  desk. 
He  had  not  fought  with  himself  all 
these  years  to  find  the  victory  always 
hard  to  win. 

Gentlemen,”  he  said  in  a steady 
voice,  “you  may  as  well  go  home. 
I ’m  against  you,  and  I ’ll  fight  to  a 
finish  for  the  west  route  over  the 
divide.  You  know  where  I’ll  be 
when  the  votes  are  counted.  You 
know  what  sort  of  a majority  I can 
depend  on.  I do  need  money;  you 
are  right  about  that.  But  I ’ve  never 

87 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


yet  banked  a dollar  that  was  tar- 
nished or  that  stuck  to  my  hands, 
and  I’m  too  old  to  begin  that  busi- 
ness now.” 

“More  than  that,” — his  voice  had 
just  a half-tone’s  deepening, — “I 
stand  for  the  trees,  for  their  beauty 
and  their  shade.  Glentlemen,  you 
and  I might  live  and  die  a few  thou- 
sands richer  than  we  are,  but  money 
value  doesn’t  enter  into  the  comfort 
those  trees  can  give  to  the  farmers’ 
wives  along  our  right-of-way,  nor 
the  delight  and  iuspiration  they  are 
to  the  children.  It  is  nearly  fifty 
years  since  I came  here  out  of  a Mis- 
souri swamp.  All  the  best  impulses 
of  my  fifty  years  lead  me  back  to  one 
old  cottonwood  tree.  It  developed 
my  muscles  when  I climbed  it  as  a 

boy.  It  gave  me  an  outlook  on  a 
88 


DRIFTING  COTTON 


landscape  that  put  a wider  horizon 
into  my  life.  It  sheltered  me  from 
the  heat,  it  saved  me  from  a win- 
ter’s blizzard,  and  its  drifting  cotton 
has  sailed  in  between  me  and  temp- 
tation and  kept  my  manhood  for 
me.  And  when  I die  I ask  for  noth- 
ing better  than  that  the  musical 
rustle  of  cottonwood  leaves  shall 
sound  above  my  grave  and  sing  my 
requiem.  You  may  call  this  notion 
of  mine  by  any  name  you  want  to, 
and  you  may  call  me  anything  you 
choose,  but  don’t  forget  that  our 
right-of-way  lies  on  the  west  side  of 
that  north-and-south  road  for  the 
next  twenty  years,  with  the  privilege 
of  renewing  the  same  for  another 
twenty.” 

What  the  three  men  thought  when 
they  went  away  was  what  the  pro- 

89 


THE  COTTOSWOOD’B  STORY 


spective  purchaser  of  the  farm  had 
thought, — namely,  that  Sam  was  a 
fool ; but  this  time  he  knew  he 
wasn’t. 


90 


atttumn’0  CSoIti. 


OOKING  only  on  the  self- 
:xi  ish  actions  of  men,  it  is 
hard  to  believe  that  hon- 
esty is  the  best  policy; 
but  the  trees  know  it  is  a truth.  We 
see  the  results  that  are  ages  in  mak- 
ing. That ’s  why  we  never  get  in  a 
hurry  and  ask  for  ten  rings  of 
growth  a year  instead  of  one.  Men 
want  to  double  their  size  in  a given 
time,  and  if  they  cannot  do  it  they 
try  to  inflate  themselves  and  then  pad 
up  the  hollowness  until  they  appear 
to  do  it  anyhow.  Sooner  or  later  the 
sham  size,  the  false  growth,  is 
known,  and  then  the  disgrace  of  it 
hangs  on  forever. 


91 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


Sam  had.  learned  my  lesson  of 
waiting,  and  his  clean  life  came  at 
last  to  be 

“ his  bond  upon  his  bond.” 

Fearlessness  and  business  integrity 
bring  their  own  reward,  and  the 
brand  of  solid  metal  was  on  his 
wares.  Nobody  went  to  him  for  ' 
plated  goods. 

The  children  came  home  from  the 
University  crowning  his  head  with 
honors.  They  had  vigor  of  charac- 
ter as  well  as  of  mentality,  and  their 
sound  physical  health  fostered  both. 
None  of  them  inherited  the  old  affec- 
tion of  the  liver  brought  out  of  Mis- 
souri by  the  grandfather.  Trees  be- 
lieve not  a little  in  the  mental  stimu- 
lus against  disordered  livers,  and 
there  is  nothing  they  abhor  so  much 
as  hideous  signboards  plastered  over 


92 


AUTUMN’S  GOLD 


with  advertisements  of  patent  reme- 
dies for  such  disorders.  But  then 
trees  have  no  livers. 

The  four  grandchildren  of  the 
shiftless  elder  brother  were  not  so 
fortunate  as  Sam’s  children  had 
been,  and  they  withered  away  one  by 
one.  Even  the  little  artist  nephew 
just  turned  sixteen  before  he  died, 
leaving  as  a token  of  his  one  talent 
a picture  of  the  tree  his  Uncle  Sam 
had  loved  so  long.  It  hangs  above 
Sam’s  desk  now,  where  he  may  see  it 
every  day.  It  would  hardly  take  the 
water-color  prize  in  its  class  at  the 
Exposition,  hut  what  of  that?  Has 
not  the  “Master  of  all  good  work- 
men ” set  him  at  his  masterpiece  for 
all  eternity? 

When  Sam’s  oldest  boy,  a grad- 
uate of  the  school  of  mines,  came 

93 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


home,  he  gave  his  father’s  farm  a 
little  study  before  going  west  to  fol- 
low his  profession. 

“ Father,”  he  said  one  night, 
“your  coal  gave  out  one  year,  and 
we  had  to  go  to  work  for  ourselves 
at  school.  That  turned  me  from  the 
notion  of  being  a Greek  professor  to 
a study  of  mines.  I thought  then  it 
was  hard  luck  to  have  you  fail  us 
right  in  the  closing  of  the  sophomore 
year.  ‘ Sophs  ’ need  so  much  money, 
you  know.  Mother  wrote  us  it  was 
God’s  providence  the  farm  wasn’t 
sold  then,  and  I believe  it  now. 
Father,  there’s  oil,  millions  of  oil 
down  those  old  coal-shafts.  You 
saved  a fortune  for  all  of  us  when 
you  didn’t  sell  the  farm. 

“ You  ’ll  be  the  richest  man  in  the 
country  yet,  and  then  have  plenty  of 

94 


AUTUMN’S  GOLD 


money  for  your  illustrious  son,  the 
professor  of  mining  business,  and 
for  his  equally  illustrious  brother, 
hunting  bugs  down  in  South  Amer- 
ica. There  are  enough  bugs  in  all 
conscience  out  here  on  the  prairie 
to  satisfy  the  most  fastidious,  with- 
out going  beetle-hunting  in  Brazil. 
And  there  ’ll  be  money  left  over,  too, 
for  the  third  boy,  who  is  going  to 
Chicago  to  reform  all  the  slums 
there.  We  ’re  a gay  lot  of  Missouri- 
ans, diving  after  bugs  and  slums  and 
the  ill-smelling  oil  down  in  the 
mines.  We  reveal  our  plebeian  stock 
clearly.  But  with  money  my  sister 
can  marry  an  earl.  I guess  a Mis- 
souri. girl  and  an  English  Duke 
would  match  up  all  right  with  a good 
oil  well  to  lubricate  the  machinery.” 

He  rattled  on  gaily  in  the  exuber- 

95 


AUTVMlf’S  GOLD 


ance  of  wholesome  young  life  and 
promise,  hut  the  older  man  scarcely 
heard  what  he  said.  What  Sam  did 
hear  was  the  feeble  voice  of  his  dy- 
ing father  saying,  “ You  ’ll  git  your 
reward  some  day,”  and  his  own  an- 
swer, ‘‘  I ’ve  had  my  reward  al- 
ready.” 

All  the  young  man’s  dream  I knew 
would  he  realized,  for  the  wealth  was 
there.  And  now,  day  and  night  the 
black  smoke  rises  in  a column  toward 
the  sky,  and  the  draw  isn’t  a water- 
drainage  any  more.  It ’s  a stream  of 
waste  oil. 

Up  here  I stand  and  watch  the 
plain,  and  dream  of  the  days  gone 
by  and  of  the  days  to  come.  How 
changed  from  the  prairie  of  long  ago, 
when  the  first  settlers  crept  across  it, 
is  the  fertile,  busy,  thrifty  eountry- 

97 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


side  of  to-day.  This  land  to  me  is  the 
fairest  under  all  the  dome  of  heaven. 
With  the  wealth  that  lies  below  the 
soil  are  the  riches  in  it  and  upon  it ; 
the  land  that  grows  the  best  grain 
and  the  choicest  fruit  and  the  finest 
stock,  and,  most  of  all,  grows  men 
and  tuomen,  no  matter  how  poor  and 
unpromising  their  first  outlook  on 
life  may  be.  Here  they  develop  and 
strengthen  and  ripen  at  last  like  the 
corn  in  autumn.  I have  loved  it  all 
since  first  I was  tall  enough  to  lift 
my  head  above  the  divide  and  look 
out  upon  it. 

It  is  October  now,  and  the  splen- 
dor of  yellow  leaves  is  mine.  The 
clear  sweet  air,  the  changing  land- 
scape, the  glorious  sweep  of  rainbow- 
tinted  skies,  the  purple  haze  over  the 

9S 


AUTUMN’S  GOLD 


vanishing  distances,  and  thrpugh  all 
and  all,  the  autumn’s  calm,  the  year’s 
“ well  done  ” that  fills  with  an  ineffa- 
ble peace  the  soul  of  him  who  can 
take  it  in, — these  things  belong  to 
my  days  of  golden  leaves. 

You  see  that  white  gravestone 
gleaming  through  the  grasses  at  my 
feet!  It  marks  the  place  where  Nel- 
lie lies.  No.  Not  Nellie,  but  the 
garb  of  flesh  she  wore  on  earth.  It 
was  just  such  a grand  October  as 
this  when  I lined  her  open  grave 
with  my  leaves  of  shimmering  gold, 
and  dropped  them  on  her  coffin-lid. 

Sam  is  a gray-haired  man,  vigor- 
ous and  useful  and  strong  in  the  au- 
tumn of  his  days.  He  too  will  come 
back  to  me  in  a little  while,  and  an- 
other white  stone  will  be  planted  at 
my  feet.  Men  will  laud  his  life  and 


99 


THE  COTTONWOOD’S  STORY 


honor  Ms  memory.  His  loved  ones 
will  mourn  for  him  and  long  to  have 
him  here  again.  Only  I,  the  old  cot- 
tonwood, will  bud  and  blossom  and 
send  my  drifting,  feathery  cotton  far 
and  wide;  will  grow  green  in  the 
springtime  and  golden  in  the  au- 
tumn, and  grieve  not  at  all  for  Sam. 
His  body  will  be  where  the  shadows 
of  my  boughs  will  ruffle  the  waves  of 
sunshine  that  sweep  across  the  sod; 
but  with  the  memory  of  his  noble 
life  graven  deep  in  the  hearts  of  all 
who  knew  him  will  run  the  Psalm- 
ist’s legend: 

“He  shall  he  like  a tree  planted  hy 
the  rivers  of  water;  . . his  leaf 
also  shall  not  wither;  and  whatso- 
ever he  doeth  shall  prosper.” 

W W S 


100 


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